‘I have to put the tea on for the kids first,’ I tell her.
She checks her watch. ‘Is it that time already? Where do the flipping days go?’
Normally, our day starts with greeting our students in the tea room, but I missed out today due to the mysteriously eaten Baby Jesus crisis. Our morning meeting gives us an opportunity to see what mood our kids are in and if they have any problems that we need to work through with them during the day. We also get together again for lunch and a hot meal usually cooked by Bev.
The tea room on our new farm is lovely. It doesn’t have a leaky roof and the windows actually keep out draughts. Luxury. When we moved here, I got the students to decorate it with photographs of themselves and their activities. We have a budding photographer here in Tamara, who’s thirteen going on thirty-five. Tamara has mental health issues and spends her time on Instagram obsessively following celebrities. I try to give her other subjects to focus on in an attempt to tear her away from taking copious selfies of herself and her friends here. They are typical teenagers in that every moment of their day has to be documented for social media. We try to frame it in a more constructive way and encourage them to provide content for our social media accounts and not just do it mindlessly – see how modern we are? Not me, obviously. But Bev says we need to be ‘outward looking’ and ‘media savvy.’ Who am I to argue?
Photography is definitely Tamara’s forte and we try to encourage it as a way of development. I’m no expert, but I think she’s good. Bev managed to persuade one of the local shops to donate a decent camera to us and we take it in turns walking with Tamara across the farm to help her take some shots. Tamara nearly faints with delight on the rare occasion that Lucas offers to take her. It’s another thing that Bev sees as a potential fundraiser. She’s convinced that local camera clubs will cough up a few quid to get close to our animals and have access to our land. She might be right. It would be nice if we could get someone who knew about photography to come and mentor Tamara on a regular basis. Another thing to add to our wish list.
Bev and I go into the tea room together and I get the kettles going while she puts out the cups. Minutes later everyone arrives en masse, shouting, laughing and talking over each other, and our moment of peace is turned to bedlam. We dish out tea and biscuits. I’m pleased to note that Lucas is with Penny and he’s making her giggle. I like the sound of that.
When they’re all happy and we’ve sorted out any problems and they’ve devoured all the biscuits and we’ve organised their next tasks, Bev and I take our leave. Of course, she can’t do that without smothering Alan with kisses again.
‘I can’t get enough of him. That man is grrrrrrrr . . .’ She growls at me, yanking at me playfully as we go out of the door.
I’m sure Bev’s experiencing a hormone surge. ‘I’m assuming that’s a good thing.’
‘It’s a wonderful thing.’
‘You can have too much love,’ I say.
‘You can’t,’ she replies. ‘I’ve been a desert for many years and Alan is my rain. I’m slaking my thirst.’
‘I think that’s nice,’ I say as I ponder the image.
‘It’s lovely,’ she states categorically. ‘You should be doing the same.’
‘I prefer little sips,’ I counter.
Little Dog barks excitedly as he follows Bev and me as we head towards my caravan.
Bev laughs. ‘Where is The Great Shelby, by the way?’
‘Filming. A Christmas special.’
‘Oh, smashing,’ Bev says. ‘Last Christmas found him in bed with Slack Sally who runs the café.’
‘Right.’
‘The village pub burned down too.’
‘Were the two things connected?’
She tuts at me. ‘Don’t be silly.’
Bev is a big fan of Flinton’s Farm, but I confess that I’ve still never watched Shelby’s soap. She does, however, insist on giving me a blow-by-blow account of nearly every episode and I struggle to keep up with the number of women in the fictitious village who he seems to have had affairs with. We did – on my one ill-fated visit – take our alpacas there to have a ‘starring’ role in the soap, but they behaved appallingly, running amok on the village green, knocking over actors and cameras with gay abandon. They were summarily sacked off the site before getting anywhere near the screen and have never been back since. Their moment of stardom was brief and traumatic for all concerned.
‘I can’t help but mention that Shelby’s hardly here these days.’ Bev frowns at me. ‘There’s nothing wrong?’
‘Other than the fact that he’s still allergic to all of the animals?’ We both smile at that. It’s a constant source of amusement – more than it should be – that someone who has made his living at portraying a farmer sneezes at the sight of a sheep and is, therefore, completely useless with any of the animals. To be able to help for just an hour he has to mainline antihistamine. When he spends any length of time here, his eyes take on a permanent red hue – not ideal for his television work. ‘It’s difficult for him. He has a lot on. I understand that.’
‘There’s always something. This or that keeps him in London. It sounds like a lot of excuses to me.’
I have no answer to that. I know it’s not ideal, but I don’t want to put extra pressure on Shelby. Our relationship is fairly new and, as such, we’re still finding our way to blend his life and mine. I’m simply grateful for the time that we have together.
Chapter Eight
We arrive at my caravan. Big Dog is snoozing in a patch of sunshine by the door and wags his tail in greeting, but can’t quite summon up the energy to get up and greet us. Bev fusses him before we both step over his bulk and go inside.
Bev shrugs out of her coat. ‘I remember the days when you could see your own breath in the old van. It was colder inside than outside. This is the bloody Ritz in comparison.’
I’d always viewed my previous caravan home as shabby-chic, but I have to admit that it was probably more shabby-condemned. Shelby refused to stay in it, mainly due to its lack of amenities and excess of dog hair. The first thing that Shelby did was order me a fancy-dancy mobile home which has all the mod-cons. I have a proper kitchen with a working oven and, miracle of miracles, a shower which produces hot water, lots of it – something I haven’t had for a very long time. Strangely, part of me misses the home-rigged, outdoor bucket shower that used to serve as my bathroom. This shower might have hot water, but it doesn’t come with a view of the valley beyond or the starry sky above me. Perhaps I am seeing with eyes that are more sentimental than realistic and should remember the freezing mornings when I cursed having to do my ablutions al fresco.
In my des-res van I also have central heating – which I am loathe to use in case it makes me soft, and only put it on to assuage Lucas. I’ve also got a posh bedroom that’s off-limits to anything with fur, which has definitely put out the noses of my dear doggies, but it does mean that Shelby can stay here when he wants to and still be able to breathe. There’s also another proper bedroom, which means that Lucas can live with me, and that, beyond any of the other convenient amenities, is the thing I’m most grateful for. Though when I do poke my head round his bedroom door – on the rare occasion I risk doing so – it looks like a glimpse into my old caravan. Lucas favours his floor as a wardrobe, the bed is always crumpled and I have to beg him to change the sheets. What surfaces you can see are scattered with scribblings of his poetry and, though he rarely deigns to perform for me, I do like to hear him read it out. He still won’t share his poetry with his father either, which is a great sadness to Shelby. Sometimes, I sneak a peek at the recordings he puts on YouTube without him knowing. His poems are angry, rapped out with passion and I love them all. We make slow progress and he’ll sometimes take a poetry class for the kids – which they love – but it’s a talent that he’s frustratingly reluctant to share. I’ll keep trying though.
I put the kettle on – electric, not half an hour to wait for it to boil – as
we’re hooked up to mains electric here too. Told you it was fancy.
‘I’ve invited the new mayor to the Christmas open day,’ Bev says when she’s settled in the window seat with her mug.
‘What?’ I nearly spit out my own tea. Sliding into the seat opposite, I lean on the table between us.
‘He’s great, by all accounts. Not that new, I suppose. He’s been in office for a bit now. Can’t remember when. I haven’t met him yet, but I’ve heard very good things about Matt Eastman.’
‘But why have you asked him?’
She shrugs. ‘I thought he could shake hands, cut a ribbon, turn on the lights? I don’t know. Do the sort of things that mayors do.’
‘Won’t that be Shelby’s job?’
‘Well. Ordinarily. But these aren’t ordinary times. Golden Boy isn’t here all that often, is he? Can we rely on him?’
‘I’m sure we can.’ I feel myself bristle slightly, which is unfair. Bev, as always, is only saying what she sees. ‘I gave him the date for his diary.’
‘The other attraction of the mayor is that he has some cash to flash in supporting local charities,’ she breezes on. ‘I thought he might like to throw some our way. It can’t hurt to have him turn up and cut a ribbon. If Shelby is here they can fight it out to the death over the scissors.’
When I break it to Shelby, I’m sure he’ll appreciate the benefit of having one of our local dignitaries here, even though it gives me the collywobbles.
Bev draws a notebook from the pocket of her discarded coat and consults it. ‘The local branch of the WI have kindly agreed to do mince pies and cakes for us.’
‘That’s nice.’ We’re trying to foster relationships with our neighbours and community clubs as some local people view our work with suspicion. They assume the place is full of knife-wielding druggies and, to be fair, we have had our share of those over the years, but it’s not our main work. We’re more likely to help with mental health and behavioural issues.
‘I’ve organised some flyers to be printed that we can put around the village.’
‘How many people do you think will come?’
‘No idea, but we could only accommodate a hundred, max. Parking is the issue. As long as it’s not too soggy we can open the field by the road. Alan can supervise that.’ She writes it in her pad.
‘What are my jobs?’
‘I’ll leave you in charge of panicking,’ she says. ‘You do it so well.’
I have to laugh at that. Principally, because she’s right. ‘I am looking forward to it,’ I insist.
‘You’re not. You’re dreading it. Already, it’s bringing you out in hives and we’ve got aaaaages to go yet.’
We haven’t. Just so you know.
‘I need to find another Baby Jesus,’ I confess. ‘The alpacas have eaten the one I bought off eBay.’
‘They are bastard things,’ Bev says affectionately. ‘We’ll have to improvise. Do you think we could get Little Dog to lie still in a manger?’
My canine chum pricks up his ears at the sound of his name. ‘No.’ He’s good, but not that good.
‘Plan B then,’ Bev says and scribbles furiously again.
‘Shall we teach the students a Christmas song?’
‘Yeah. They’d like that and it will keep them out of mischief for a few hours.’
‘We’ve got a craft session this afternoon. Card-making.’
‘Joy.’ Bev can do many things, but arts and crafts are not her idea of fun.
‘I thought the kids could make a Christmas card for someone. If they want to.’ Unfortunately, not all of our charges are in settled homes with their parents. Some are in foster care or council-run homes.
My friend nods her approval. ‘That would be a nice thing.’ Bev jots it down and then closes her notebook. ‘Better get on. Chickpea curry for lunch and I’ve got healthy shizzle to chop.’
‘Sounds great. I’ve got Jack pencilled in to help you.’
‘He’s such a darling,’ Bev says. ‘One of our success stories.’
‘Life would be a lot easier if everyone was like Jack. I’d take a dozen of him every day.’
Bev puts on her coat. ‘I still can’t get used to seeing you in such civilised surroundings.’
‘I know. I have an oven that actually works and everything. I’m very grateful to Shelby.’
‘Don’t be too grateful. He’s got pots of cash, he can afford to keep you in a modicum of luxury.’
‘I just wish he was here more often to share it with me.’
‘Talk to him,’ Bev says. When I start to protest, she holds up her hands. ‘I’m sure all is absolutely hunky-dory as you say, but he’s probably used to being top of the pile, not beneath a couple of mild-mannered donkeys, three badly behaved alpacas, half a dozen horses of assorted variety, forty-odd needy sheep and more bunnies than you can shake a stick at. Not to mention all the hens, ducks, geese and dogs we take care of. Make a fuss of him. Men like that kind of thing.’
‘I’m so useless at this romance stuff, Bev.’
‘That’s because you haven’t had enough practice.’
‘I haven’t had any practice!’ It’s true. Before I met Shelby, there was very little boyfriend action in my life. I’ve always preferred animals. Sometimes, I wish I were more sophisticated, more worldly wise, but, on a farm, no one cares about that and I’ve let my social skills slide.
‘Have a shower, do your hair, dress nicely,’ Bev advises.
‘What about the evening feed?’
‘I’ll do that before I leave,’ she says. ‘Lucas can help.’
‘But—’
Bev cuts me off. ‘What I’m saying is make a bit of effort, Mols.’ She huffs at me. ‘Look like you care.’
‘I do care.’
‘Then make sure Shelby realises that. The man’s a star. He’s used to people falling at his feet.’
‘I’ve never done that.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt every now and again, would it?’ She kisses my cheek and leaves the caravan.
And I stand there contemplating which out of my two pairs of jeans might be considered in the category of ‘dress nicely’.
Chapter Nine
When the day is done, Lucas comes back to the caravan. He’s hardly stopped working all day and as he stands in the doorway kicking off his wellies, I see that he looks tired.
‘Hey. Busy day?’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I spent most of the afternoon repairing the fences with Alan. I’m knackered. What’s for dinner?’
‘I’m making some Mexican wraps filled with peppers and onions accompanied by an avocado salsa thing and rice. Sound OK?’
He comes to look over my shoulder at it. ‘Cool.’
Lucas has gone vegan, so I’m having to up my cooking game. I’m trying to do the same to show solidarity, but I had no idea how much I’d miss proper cheese. The vegan substitute I’ve bought tastes like a bar of soap. And, if you ask me, soya milk smells of sick. We’re currently trialling oat milk, but it makes tea taste of porridge so I’ve taken to drinking it black. I hope Shelby doesn’t mind the absence of dairy. Perhaps cutting it out might help his allergies.
‘Is Dad coming for supper?’
‘I hope so. He’s in the middle of filming the Christmas special, though, so your guess is as good as mine.’
Lucas rolls his eyes.
‘I’ve cooked plenty just in case. Why don’t you have a nice hot shower?’
He kicks his toe against the carpet in his grubby socks. They have a hole in each of the big toes and I’ve no idea how that boy ruins so many. As I still have a morbid terror of supermarkets, I get Bev to bulk-buy them for me in ASDA. I have come to realise that teenage lads get through an inordinate amount of socks, food and toilet roll.
‘Will Dad be here tomorrow?’
‘I doubt it.’ Two nights on the run is unlikely. ‘Why?’
His face is arranged to reflect studied nonchalance. ‘Just thought I might invite someone back. May
be for tea.’
This takes me by surprise. It will be the first time that Lucas has asked to bring anyone here. ‘Who?’
‘No one.’ Instantly defensive.
‘OK. Does “no one” have a name?’
‘Yes.’
When that name isn’t forthcoming, I venture, ‘Is “no one” a boy or girl?’
Lucas huffs. ‘Don’t get on my case.’
‘Asking what your friend’s name is and whether they’re male or female isn’t getting on your case, it’s being interested in your life.’
‘My friend’s name is Aurora,’ he parrots in a cartoon voice. ‘And she identifies as a female.’
‘Does that mean she is a female?’
‘God, you are so last century.’
‘Quite probably.’ I can do nonchalant too. I stir my peppers. For a moment, I hoped it might be Penny and that she and Lucas had formed a friendship. God knows she could do with one. But I’ve never heard mention of this Aurora before. ‘So where did you two meet?’
‘At poetry club,’ he reluctantly admits.
‘Ah.’ Of course, it can’t really have been anywhere else.
I drive Lucas to a slightly grimy pub in our nearest town, Aylesbury, once a week where poetry club takes place in an upstairs room. I’ve no idea what goes on as I’m not allowed inside and I have to drop Lucas at the door and pretend that I don’t know him. However, it looks as if he hasn’t spent all his time reading his poetry there.
‘What’s she like?’
‘If you want any more information, you’ll have to apply electrodes to my testicles.’
‘Lucas.’ I give him a look. ‘I’m interested.’
‘Nosey,’ he counters. ‘Anyway, I’m not asking anyone to come back if he’s here.’
‘I’m sure your dad would be pleased that you’d got a girlfriend.’
‘She’s not a girlfriend. Aurora’s a friend. That’s all.’ His pale cheeks colour up with two bright pink spots and he says Aurora in a slightly dreamy way. ‘And if anyone meets him they go all ga-ga because he’s on the telly. Then that’s that. It gets in the way.’
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